


The Knight Of The Shiny Bowl

by hazelandglasz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Drinking & Talking, Drunken Flirting, Flirting, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:48:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22542022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazelandglasz/pseuds/hazelandglasz
Summary: prompt: I'm drunk and my phone fell into the toilet and now I'm drunkenly crying, waiting for a miracle when you come and help me out. either with crying Blaine and helper Kurt or crying Stiles and helper Derek. both would be hilarious.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 11
Kudos: 175





	The Knight Of The Shiny Bowl

Stiles just wanted to make a phone call.

He is drunk, yes, but he still needed to let his dad know that he wasn’t dead or lying in a ditch to prevent him from calling the Marshalls or whoever it is you call when you think someone is missing.

He digresses.

Not that it’s characteristic of Stiles being drunk, he tends to digress as a consequence of being, well, himself.

Back to the matter at hand: all he wanted to do was make a phone call to his dad, and then return to alternate between drinking and dancing, dancing and drinking—drancing, if you will—until he would meet a suitable partner for the night or get tired of drancing.

But now, Stiles is staring at his phone which is glaring at him from the bottom of the toilet bowl.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Stiles mumbles, wiping his face with his hand. “I didn’t mean to drop you, you know that, Samsy.”

A bubble escapes from the water in the bowl, as if conveying Stiles’ phone’s poor opinion on his motor skills.

“What am I going to do?” Stiles bemoans, dropping to his knees in front of the toilet. The idea of reaching in crosses his mind, but even as drunk as he is, Stiles knows that his very drunkenness would only complicate things.

“My phoo-oone,” he whines. The only thing that would work now is a miracle, some kind of divine or demonic intervention—Stiles is not picky—or just some help.

That’s the moment when the door opens and a very grumpy, dark and brooding miracle happens.

“Uh?” is all Stiles manages to say as he gets back to his feet before the guy cocks his head, rolls his eyes at him and fishes Stiles’ phone from the bowl.

He even wraps it in toilet paper before handing it to Stiles.

Well, handing.

Tall, dark and super helpful actually presses the phone against Stiles’ chest.

And keeps his hand there.

“You should be more careful with your property,” the man says with a cocky smile. “It would be such a shame to have you moaning for anything else but—”

“Oh thank you, thank you, thank you!” Stiles exclaims, not even noticing the shift on the man’s face, from dark and sultry to shocked and amused. “You’re my hero, I must repay you! Come on, big guy,” Stiles continues, pulling the man by the hand—it’s a surprisingly soft hand, for such a large hand—to the bar. “The next round is on me.”

The man lets himself be manhandled to the bar, taking his hand back. “You are something.”

Stiles leans over the bar, plastering himself to the counter to get the bartender’s attention, before turning back to his rescuer. “Something good?”

The man’s eyes drift back from where they were, at the level of Stiles’ ass. “Very good.”

Stiles beams at his hero. “Oh wow,” he whispers. “You really have deserved a drink, dude.”

The man winces. “Don’t call me dude.”

“Well,” Stiles replies, patting the man’s shoulder—oh, that is a strong shoulder, looks perfect to sleep on or bite into— “give me something else to call you,  _ dude _ .”

The man grabs Stiles’ hand as he slides it down his arm and pulls him closer. “Derek. Now, remember it, so you can—”

“What’s your poison, Derek?”

“What?!”

Stiles points his thumb at the bartender who is quietly laughing at them. “Whatcha wanna drink?”

Derek blinks a couple of times before huffing a laugh. “I’ll have a  [ Sidecar ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sidecar_\(cocktail\)) .”

Stiles gestures for the bartender to make two of those before returning his attention on Derek. “A fan of the sours, uh?”

“I guess,” Derek mumbles. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

“Oh! Right.” Stiles rubs the back of his neck. “You can call me Stiles. And I really meant it, you were a life-saver.”

“Your phone isn’t saved yet,” Derek laughs. “You’ll need to dunk it in rice. But,” he adds, scooting his chair closer to Stiles’, “I’m glad I could… lend you a hand.”

Something in the way he paused makes Stiles wonder if perhaps there is a whole level of discussion passing him by. Like when he goes to see a Disney movie with his little cousins and they laugh at the animation while he laughs at the puns hidden throughout the movie.

“Do you want… me? To lend you a hand? With something?”

The drinks are placed before them, and Derek’s shoulders shake with repressed laughter. “You really are…”

“Yeah? I know how some people would like to end that sentence, but I’m curious about your choices.”

Derek looks back at him, his smile all soft and turning Stiles’ insides all gooey-mushy. “You really are unique, Stiles.”

“That’s new. Here’s to new adjectives!” Stiles replies, lifting his glass in a toast.

“To new things.”

\---

Three sidecars and two white russians later, Stiles doesn’t even know why he is laughing, but he knows that he was right.

Derek’s shoulder is very comfortable to lay his head on.

After their first drink, they managed to dance a little before snatching one of the velvety sofas in a corner of the club, and they have been talking and chatting there all night.

“I heard you crying and I th-I thought—” Derek hiccups. “I thought, here is a voice I need to put a face on.”

“Awww, Derek-poo, that’s so sweet.”

Derek looks down at him with an attempt at a glare before shaking his head, lifting his glass to capture the last drops in his glass. To do so, he tilts his head backward, stretching the expanse of his neck for Stiles’ hungry eyes.

Stiles even licks his lips, but he doesn’t move from his very comfortable position.

He doesn’t do it quick enough to keep the gesture from Derek’s eyes, though.

They stare at each other for a long moment, before Stiles drops his eyes to Derek’s lips, still shining from the last drops of white russian he caught.

And there he goes again, licking his lips all while wishing he could lick Derek’s.

Derek’s eyes were already dark, but their pupils widen even more. Stiles doesn’t even have the time to fully think about how it makes him look dangerously sexy (or sexily dangerous) before Derek moves forward, twisting them so he can press his lips to Stiles’.

That kiss is not well thought through, not planned well, it’s too wet and too rushed.

Long story short, it’s a perfect first kiss.

“Oh,” Stiles manages to breathe when they part, “so you are interested.”

Derek opens and closes his mouth before chuckling, leaning his head against Stiles’ shoulder. “Stiles,” he whispers, his breath hot on Stiles’ skin, “I have been hitting on you ever since I laid eyes on you. Yes,” he continues, looking up and cupping Stiles’ cheek, “I am very interested.”

“You have—hmph?” Stiles starts asking, his words swallowed by the return of Derek’s mouth on his, and he smiles into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck to pull him closer on top of him.

_ Thank you for your sacrifice, Samsy. _


End file.
